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When I was accepted to Saint John Paul II Seminary, I didn’t know what to expect. I feared that I wouldn’t be as holy or as smart as the other guys. I feared that my personality wouldn’t mesh well with the guys in the house, and especially with my roommate. Now as my second semester begins, I have no concerns about the fraternity here.

One day, when I was a youth of 17 years old who relished in wonder of woods and the world, platforms for dreams of adventure and heroism – as every youth, young and old, have – I wandered through the library of my high school to its second floor. It was there as I browsed across the shelves, judging books by their binders and titles and authors, that my eyes curiously settled upon a biography with an old black and battered cover.

Actions that had no direct impact on me continue to impact me indirectly. To this, Some say that “tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.”

But I knew that I didn’t win my race when I crossed the finish line, I won when I...

My grandfather used to tell us stories of his experiences during World War II. His stories never described the battles and operations he went through, yet he would focus rather on what he was thinking during those events. After every battle and difficult operation, each story had the same conclusion, “For every step I took, I prayed, ‘Our Lady of Victory: Pray for us.’ Every single step.”

“Do we have any pickaxes?” “How about a machete?” Smiling, I thought to myself, I would be doing the same thing at home with my dad, for my mom on her birthday.

“A 100-mile bike ride for vocations?! Count me in! I’ve biked 20 miles before. Should be no problem.” Was I overly optimistic? Perhaps. Will I ever regret the time, energy, and sweat I spent on the Ride for Vocations with my Christian brothers and sisters? No way!

In early July, fourteen men journeyed south from the U.S.A. and made pilgrimage to the neighboring lands of Mexico to pray before the tilma of Our Lady of Guadalupe. There are a few familiar expressions that capture a moment concisely and completely...

This week marks the feast of St. Benedict of Norcia, the 6th century father of western monasticism, whose spiritual sons and daughters, the Benedictines, are still to be found in monasteries scattered throughout the world...

While growing up and playing ice hockey with two older brothers, differentiating between hockey and boxing was not always clearly defined; as the old standby goes, “We went to a boxing match and a hockey game broke out.” Both require elegance and a strong nose. Years later I saw the movie  Cinderella Man starring Russel Crowe. After the seeds of inspiration were planted in my youth by  Rocky, I learned of the story regarding 1935 - ‘37 heavyweight champion and virtuous family man, James J. Braddock. This was the final motivation needed for me to respond to the promptings pounding in my heart: to begin boxing.

It would be hard to spend a week in Jamaica and not notice the surrounding beauty. From the first day, I fell in love with the mountains and the ocean. But as the week went on, I noticed a different kind of beauty. The more I had the opportunity to interact with the residents at Jacob’s ladder, the more I noticed their childlike trust and love.

Near the end of our exciting last full day in Jamaica – which involved a morning spent with the residents, a trip to Kingston, and a short interview on Mustard Seed’s Kingston neighborhood radio station – the fact that our trip was coming to an end was inevitably dawning upon us.

One morning I found myself at Jacob’s Well, recalling that last Sunday’s Gospel reading was that very passage. I was over looking Corinth and the foundations of Damascus with Antioch behind me. Needless to say I was disoriented. I didn’t remember going to the Holy Land, and I was positive that Damascus was more than a stone’s throw from Corinth.

Greetings from Jamaica! I am Connor Schmidt, a first-year college seminarian studying for the Archdiocese of Baltimore. Right now, it is spring break for the seminary, and a group of us are down in Jamaica serving at Mustard Seed Communities, a Catholic mission that serves persons with mental and physical handicaps across the world. We are all blessed to be here, but it’s been a strange journey so far.

The beauty of the Mustard Seed Community here at Jacob’s Ladder is like a breath of air to someone who has forgotten to breathe for a few minutes.  Having just completed midterm examinations, many of us were somewhat worn out going into Mission. But upon arriving at Jacob’s Ladder Monday afternoon, every care was swiftly carried away by the simple beauty of this place.

Bathing our cabin before dawn was a vast cloud of morning dew resting gently upon our mountain ridge. Walking through the small dancing beads of mist to the chapel for morning prayer, I looked to the east and was stunned! Shining faintly through, outlining the silhouettes of trees jaggedly peaking from the crest of the mountain across us, was our glorious star awaking life in Jamaica.

“God of freedom, all victorious, Give us souls serene and strong, Strength to make the future glorious, Keep the echo of our song; North Dakota, North Dakota, In our hearts forever long.” These are the words of the North Dakota State Hymn which exuberate within the hearts of us seminarians from the Bismarck Diocese. 

This past weekend we hosted our annual Men's Discernment Retreat at Saint John Paul II Seminary and while many of the discerners, seminarians, and priests that were present had attended this retreat before, it was my first time.  I was certainly looking forward to meeting the 38 men who courageously signed up for the retreat and made the commitment to spend a weekend away from their normal schedules to speak with priests, question seminarians, and listen to God's voice.

“After a while they played at forfeits; for it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself.” – Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol 

I first discovered St. Peter’s Church on Capitol Hill one evening in an MPD cruiser while on patrol with the police radio rattling into my ear. I pulled over and parked in front of the Church and walked in. I turned the radio volume down low, yet its pitch still seemed to softly disturb the silence that permeated the peaceful atmosphere. Seeing the flickering candle beside the tabernacle signing to the presence of Our Lord, brought me a sense of refreshment. St. Peter’s became a place of recourse throughout my job as a cop.